How Does Your Garden Grow?
by golden-faranth
Summary: A collection of short stories and drabbles illustrating the continuing (mis)adventures of the state of New Jersey, from early in her history to today, with appearances by America and the rest of his 50 states.
1. Chapter 1

Well, it's certainly been a long time since I have updated anything here! For that, I should apologize, especially to those who have been following _Sleeping Beasts._ I have no real excuses for not updating that, apart from being in grad school and thus generally pretty busy.

And although I haven't been updating _Sleeping Beasts,_ I have been writing-generally state OC stories that'll eventually appear in this collection. They are remarkably good stress relief! I have a great fondness for state OCs, almost despite myself, and this collection is borne of that. In addition, many of the headcanons that these stories are written around have been made jointly with Ashynarr, whose on state fic you can read on this site (under the name _Adventures of the Golden State_) and on AO3 (published as _Adventures of the Somewhat United States_).

This collection is crossposted there too, and as a bunch of these stories are already written, I hope to be uploading them over the course of the next few days!

* * *

_Important Names:_

New Jersey- Susannah (and the Dutch diminutive "Sanne")  
New York- Benjamin  
Scotland- Iain

* * *

_[New Jersey's state animal is the horse]_

Once, when she was very small, _Nederland_ took her to see the horses he and his explorers had brought with them from Europe, and Sanne remembers them as being the most wonderful creatures, unlike anything she's ever seen before.

They'd been set loose into a fenced pasture to exercise—

(_what are fences? _Sanne had asked;

_we make fences to hold our property_, _Nederland_ had replied, and it takes centuries before Sanne understands just why her stomach had clenched at those words)

—and Sanne was enchanted by the way they frolicked and tossed their heads.

The image is vivid in her mind, even centuries later.

_Touch?_ She remembers asking _Nederland_, tugging on his sleeve and pointing to the big black Friesian that _Nederland_ himself rode.

_Ja_, he'd told her before whistling to the horse, who came to him eagerly. He'd stroked the horse's nose softly, and even then Sanne recognized that he was gentler with the horse than he ever was with her or Ben—she remembers his gruff kindness fondly, sometimes, but he'd also tried to civilize them, had dismantled their survival skills and then left them in favor of Europe, which they'd never live up to.

Still, this is a good memory, because _Nederland_ takes her hand gently, uncurling her fingers and holding her palm up to the horse's nose.

_Let him know your scent first_, he'd said, and then he'd smiled as Sanne giggled.

_Tickles_, she told him. _Soft_.

_He likes you_, came the reply.

And Sanne had stroked the horse's nose until he tired of the touch and took off across the field again.

(_Always listen to the animal_, _Nederland_ said when she asked him to bring the horse back. _Otherwise it will take you by surprise when it explodes_. Sanne hadn't understood it at the time, but one day she will remember those words while standing on the battlefields in Trenton and Monmouth and Morristown, and she will revel in England's shock when he realizes just who is turning her musket on him—not the lady you bred now, she'll laugh, half lost in the battle-madness—because this time, she's the one who's exploding and it is _glorious_.)

They stood together for awhile longer, watching the horses play, and it becomes one of her favorite childhood memories.

It is also the first time she falls in love—with horses and with freedom—and Susannah will never forget that feeling.

—

_~1690_

_[Scottish colonists began settling in Perth Amboy, then part of East Jersey, in the 1680s]_

"C'mere, lass," Scotland says to her one particularly bright spring morning. "I've brought you something."

Curious, New Jersey follows him from the garden, padding barefoot across the grass and toward the stables. She's glad when Scotland makes no mention of her muddy feet or messily braided hair—unlike Mister England, Scotland doesn't seem to mind that she's not so good at being a proper lady. He just grins at her when she reaches for his hand.

It's hard keeping up with his long strides, though, so he sweeps her up into his arms instead, setting her on his broad shoulder while she giggles and threads her fingers through his dark red curls.

"What've you brought me, Uncle Iain?" She asks. The big, easy-going man is her favorite of all the people who have come to her land, since he is always willing to make time for her when he comes to visit his settlement in Perth Amboy.

"You'll see, m'girl," he replies, grinning crookedly up at her. Scotland never seems to stop smiling, at least around her, and is always ready with a kind word and a gentle hand.

Scotland carries her into the stables and then sets her down before a stall. Inside that stall stands a bright bay pony, which lowers its head to sniff at New Jersey's hair. Her eyes widen, and she stares at it, enchanted.

"She's a Galloway pony," Scotland murmurs, reaching forward to stroke the mare's ears. "And according to Ireland, every girl should have a pony. I thought that you might like her."

"What's her name?" New Jersey asks, reaches out to pet the pony's nose. She has loved horses ever since Netherlands had shown her his, although she's never had one of her own.

"She doesn't have one yet," Scotland replies, smiling down at her. "That's for you to decide." He seems enchanted himself, pleased with the way that she bites her lip and ponders. He can tell by her face that this is the best gift she's ever been given.

After a moment, New Jersey asks, "What's the Scottish word for star?" The mare has one on her forehead, stark against the luminous bay of the rest of her.

Scotland's grin widens. "_Rionnag_, or _reul_." He turns his gaze from New Jersey to the mare, who shifts in her stall.

"Rionnag," New Jersey repeats, tasting the word in her mouth. She likes it. "That's who she'll be."

"I think it will suit her," Scotland says. Then he takes her hand and lifts her into his arms again. "Now, how would you like to learn to care for her? Then I'll teach you to ride."

New Jersey's face lights up, and Scotland's heart feels fit to burst. He beams at her, entranced by her delight as she flings her arms around his neck. He laughs and cuddles her close.

"Yes please!"

—

"England is going to _kill_ us," New York says, staring at the broken vase. It had been a gift from one of England's rich proprietors, and now it lay in pieces across the floor. Yes, he will certainly kill them. And if he doesn't, their governess will. "We're going to _die_."

"Maybe we could fix it," New Jersey replies. She kneels down to gather the larger shards, piling them into her apron—luckily, it hadn't completely shattered. "We might be able to."

"I've got glue," New York says dubiously. "But it won't look right. They'll be able to tell something's off about it. The glaze is chipped." He points to one of the shards in New Jersey's hand.

Behind them, Twiggy, New York's big wolfhound, whines, waiting to be let out. At the sound, the two colonies share a look and a nod.

"The dog did it."

—

046\. King

"I'll take no tea," she says, lifting her chin. She meets England's eyes squarely.

_And I'll follow no kings_ remains unsaid.

—

080\. Healing

"I'm going to do it now," Pennsylvania says to her, "try to relax."

"That's easy for you to say," New Jersey replies, grumbling, "when you're the one with the needle."

Still, Pennsylvania's hands are gentle as he stitches her skin back together, and he doesn't say a word about the tears rolling down her cheeks.

—

095\. New Year

_December 31, 1776_

They spend the New Year freezing in Trenton, miserable and wet and bloody. They huddle close together—herself, Pennsylvania, and Delaware—hoping to share body heat.

It's worth it, New Jersey tells herself; freedom is worth it.

—

_Winter 1777, New Jersey_

New Jersey huddles as close to Delaware and Pennsylvania as she can, but it does no good—the larger bodies of her companions cannot compensate for faults of her threadbare cloak and the thin bandages wound around her bloody feet in place of boots. The wind is fierce and bitterly cold, and the three states don't stand a chance.

She finds herself drifting, her mind foggy, and eventually lets her head loll back against Delaware's shoulder. She stares out into the night and tries not to let her despair overwhelm her. She cannot give in now.

In the quiet, she feels Delaware twine his fingers in hers, and Pennsylvania is a solid, comforting weight against her side.

When morning comes, the General gives the order to march.

"We must reach the town soon," he tells them. "We can rest in Morristown."

"It's still a ways off," New Jersey whispers to Pennsylvania. "I don't think the weather will hold that long."

This is her land, and she can feel the change in her bones—a storm is coming, and it hangs heavily over their heads. New Jersey shifts uneasily, her feet numb from the cold.

"We have to hope that it will," Delaware says as he comes up beside them. "We have no other choice."

Delaware is right, and New Jersey knows it—they'll die if they stay here. But she can't help thinking that they're risking just as much if they go.

—

_[Later]_

The wind blows harshly, cutting through the threadbare cloak New Jersey clutches around herself. She shivers hard, teeth clacking, and hunches forward in an effort to block the wind, which sends snow flying into her face.

It doesn't work.

Beside her, Pennsylvania stumbles, steadied only by Delaware's hands. He lets Pennsylvania lean against him, though he's hardly strong enough to keep himself upright. It's moments like this, with the wind biting them and their bare feet slipping on the ground, that New Jersey wonders if it's worth it.

When they'd decided to take their independence, none of them had realized just what "independence" would entail, not really. New Jersey would never have guessed that she'd be walking to Morristown in a tattered uniform not even fit for a beggar.

She blinks back tears and tries to fight the hopelessness. The only thing she can do, she thinks, is to keep walking.

Their footprints are bright red against the snow.

—

The soil is cool and damp under New Jersey's hands, and she revels in it as she pauses in her digging; today, she's finally planting her tomatoes, the pride of her vegetable garden. She can't help the feeling of giddiness that overwhelms her as she breathes in the scent of earth and fresh spring air.

New Jersey lifts her head and gazes out across her yard, smiling to herself as a breeze cools the sweat on her forehead. She shifts, leaning back onto her heels, and then turns her face to the sun.

For all that she's grown well-used to the fast-paced life of the modern city and her densely populated suburbs, New Jersey has come by the nickname "the Garden State" honestly.

With a grin, she turns back to her tomatoes.

—

"What, exactly, is in Taylor Ham?" Texas asks, watching New Jersey dubiously as she fries the meat.

New Jersey shrugs. "Pork product," she says nonchalantly, "and assorted spices."

"Pork _product_? What kind of product?"

She shrugs again. "It's a mystery." She sounds almost pleased with herself, as if that's something to be proud of. Texas supposes it is; Taylor Ham—also called pork roll—is a _Jersey Thing_ through and through, and lord knows the woman is proud of her state.

He bites back a sigh as she shifts the meat onto a roll with egg and cheese. Then she sets the plate down before him and sends him a smile.

Texas can't say no to her and New Jersey knows it. So he takes the sandwich and bites into it generously and discovers that—

Well, 'pork product' isn't so bad after all.

* * *

A note on New Jersey's relationship with Scotland:

After England won New Netherlands in the 1670s, the colony was split into New York and New Jersey (and technically Delaware, which had been part of New Sweden). Then, New Jersey was split further, into East and West Jersey. East Jersey was settled by both Quakers and Scots, and it was the Scottish who had most influence in the area. The two halves remained split—apart from a few years in the 1680s as part of the Dominion of New England—until 1702 when it was reunited as the Province of New Jersey. Since Susannah represents both sections, I've continued to use "New Jersey" for convenience.


	2. Chapter 2

**Characters:** America, New Jersey  
**Summary:** America and New Jersey have an unpleasant encounter in a speakeasy  
**Names:** New Jersey-Susannah; South Carolina (mentioned): Charles

Cross-posted on AO3

_See end for more notes_

* * *

_Atlantic City, New Jersey 1926_

The speakeasy is dim and smoky, and America grimaces as he steps inside, ducking his head as he passes the doorman. The air is filled with jazz music and laughter and the hazy cigarette smoke makes it hard to concentrate on finding who he's looking for.

But he knows New Jersey is here, can feel that she is in his bones, the way he knows where any of his states are when he steps onto their land. Still, it's hard to find her amid the throng of people swaying about the speakeasy, eager for a taste of illegal hooch.

America frowns, uneasiness roiling in his gut. He knows the states aren't pleased with the amendment, but New Jersey, at least, for all her stubborn pride has rarely flouted her disobedience of federal law. She's often had a tendency to do as she pleases, it's true, but to act so flagrantly that Colonel Reeves has felt the need to call America to rein her in? She must be very upset with him.

He'd rather not have to deal with her, not what he's got other things to take care of, things to settle with France and the rest of Europe—

The throng of people crowding the speakeasy shifts, and America finally catches a glimpse of New Jersey, lounging languidly against the bar, laughing as she drinks a toast to one of the handsome young men attending her.

He has heard tell of New Jersey complaining about the popular fashion, how the straight loose dresses don't suit her at all, but as far as America can see, she's managing to pull it off just fine, no matter that she'll never have the thin, boyish figure that's now in vogue.

In any case, other aspects of the popular look _do_ suit her, and America can certainly admit that, no matter how irritated he might be with the state. The blonde bob, curled and pinned back with bright feathers, expertly frames her face, and very red lipstick gives her teeth the appearance of gleaming brightly in the dim light. She looks intimidating, like a queen attending her court, head held high as she surveys her people. America supposes that that is exactly what she's going for and steels himself as he moves closer.

When he's near enough to catch her attention, he takes a breath and calls her name. "Susannah!"

New Jersey stiffens just slightly at the sound of his voice, and America is grimly satisfied. Good, he thinks. She remembers his authority.

He watches the way she forces herself to relax, turning to him with a tight, controlled smile. "Alfred," she says coolly. "Fancy seein' you here." She pushes herself away from the bar, the fringe of her dress shifting and baring her knees as she walks toward him. "It's fine," she says to one of the men, waving him off when he reaches to her.

America can't help but be impressed as she saunters to him, hardly stumbling, and slips her arm into his. He can smell the smoke and alcohol and men's cologne on her and closes his eyes in an effort to quell his frustration.

"What brings _you_ to this fine establishment?" New Jersey asks, voice cloying.

"Don't be so pleased with yourself, Sue," is all he replies, glaring down at her. "We need to talk."

New Jersey shrugs, but she leads him through a discretely placed door into one of the speakeasy's quiet backrooms, settling him down at a small table nestled against the wall. She turns away from him to putter about the cabinets, bending to pull out glasses and a bottle of amber liquor. "Whiskey?" she offers blithely, grinning when he shakes his head. "Your loss. She shrugs again, feigning nonchalance. "Just got it in from down south," she adds, reaching for a bucket of ice he hadn't noticed earlier. "Hand picked by Charlie and everything."

She can't quite hide her smirk as he stiffens at the mention of South Carolina's name. He _knows_, knows with absolute certainty that New Jersey—or any of the North, really—had not quite forgiven South Carolina for what had happened, and even _he_ doesn't fully trust him, even decades later, so what are they doing— America cuts the thought off in its tracks as New Jersey continues to speak. He'd _wanted _them to start getting along again.

"You told us we gotta stop fightin' amongst ourselves," she says as if she's read his mind as she calmly sits across from him. "And most of us've found something we all can agree on."

"Illegal liquor?" America snaps. He inhales sharply, clenching his fists and loosening them. "Look, Sue, I know that this law is hard—"

New Jersey snorts. "Hard ain't exactly the word I'd use for it."

"Sue."

New Jersey raises a hand and motions for him to continue.

America sighs. "Colonel Reeves had been expecting your help in enforcing the law, and he is mighty disappointed—"

"Old Ira?" New Jersey interrupts, snorting dismissively. "He's hopeless," she says. "Just as hopeless as that law he fights to defend. Send him and all his pigs back to D.C., where they belong."

Her voice is so disdainful that America knows he can't expect her to cooperate with him.

"Now, this isn't exactly how I would have gone about curbing public indecency, but the law's been passed and now we've all got to deal with it. Surely you understand that," America pleads, hoping his tone of voice will soften her a bit.

"We've _all_ got to deal with it?" New Jersey snaps. "_You_ haven't had to deal with nothin', Alfie, not while you've been off gallivantin' across France for the past five years."

America flinches, but now he understands where some of her anger comes from. "Sue," he says quietly, "you know that there've been things to do over in Europe, what with the end of the War and all."

New Jersey rolls her eyes. "Not things that'd keep you there for all of five years," she argues. "No, you've been too busy mooning over France to come home and do your job." She clenches her jaw. "Not that that's anything new." She remembers how he left them high and dry after the War Between States, disappearing west instead of helping them to put the pieces back together.

America rears back, stung. "Sue," he says, voice quiet in his anger. "That is far out of line. It's not fair and you know it." It isn't like he could have done anything to stop the law from being passed, anyway, and New Jersey knows that, too.

She shrugs. "I'm not particularly interested in being fair, Alfred. And I'm not interested in protecting this law. I _am_ interested in making money, though, and there's plenty of that in bootlegging. And if it upsets the Feds? Well all the better."

New Jersey tilts her head back and swallows the rest of her drink. Then she stands, tossing him a fierce, feral grin, and for a moment America thinks that—venting her frustrations on him—had been all she'd needed to forgive him.

"You're welcome to come back," she says archly, "when you're not being such a bluenose." She pauses, eyes narrowing. "And when you're ready to deal with your own problems, instead of nosing about Europe's."

New Jersey turns and, without so much as a look back at him, saunters out of the room. If she's a little too drunk to walk steady and a little too tense to be happy, well, it hardly matters in a place like this.

America watches her go, chest tight. He doesn't know what to think about the encounter, only knows that he didn't want it to go like this. With a groan, leans back in his chair and resists the urge to bury his face in his hands, as if this were all a bad dream.

No, he thinks with a sigh. It isn't a dream at all. And if New Jersey is this angry, then he has to wonder just how mad the others are, too. He squares his shoulders and straightens, resolving to find out.

And then he'll do something about it.

* * *

**Notes**

Prohibition in New Jersey was massively unpopular for a few reasons, one of which included the large Irish and Italian immigrant populations who were mostly Catholic and for whom alcohol consumption was culturally important. New Jersey was one of the last states to ratify the amendment (and one of the first to repeal it) and wound up generally ignoring the law. Atlantic City, New Jersey was often called "America's Playground" for its loose liquor and gambling laws and was a center of organized crime.

There are stories of state judges accepting bribes to look the other way when people were put on trial for selling illegal liquor. The state Assembly was said to have made a deal with the state police so that they might have their annual dinner in Atlantic City without being disturbed. My favorite story though is one about two federal agents who were sent to shut down an illegal brewery. When they arrived at the brewery, they found a mob of people waiting to defend it, and during the confrontation, one of the agents' guns went off. A couple local police agents nearby heard the shots and came to investigate. Unfortunately for the federal agents, the cops were not on their side-they arrested the agents for not having proper New Jersey gun permits and left the citizens-and the brewery-quite alone.

Colonel Ira Reeves was a retired army officer sent by the federal government to sent to New Jersey in 1926 to put a stop to all of the flagrant disobedience of the law. After about six months, he quit and declared Prohibition a failure that had just made crime and corruption worse.

By the way, "bluenose" is slang for someone who is Puritanical and moralistic.


	3. Chapter 3

I have to apologize for taking so long to add to this! You can see the end of the chapter for a few notes. In any case, here are two more scenes from New Jersey's life: a look into America's childhood, and and afternoon spent reminiscing. California and Texas both belong to Ashynarr!

_Some mentioned states-_  
Massachusetts: Percy (short for Perseverance)  
Vermont: Pierre  
Tennessee: Nathaniel  
Kentucky: Theodore  
California: Isabel  
Texas: Samuel

* * *

_Fall, mid-1690s_

"Sue, Sue!" America cries, barging into New Jersey's bedroom and startling her awake. For a moment, New Jersey feels panic welling in her belly, and she struggles to throw the quilt from her. The fire has long gone cold in the hearth, so she scrabbles for the candlestick set on the bedside table and fumbles to light a match.

She lifts the candle and peers at America as he throws himself on to the bed. Briefly, she wonders why he didn't go to England before remembering that the other nation had been working all day and did not wish to be disturbed. She sets the candle down and shifts to allow America to burrow against her side.

"What's the matter?" she asks sleepily, using her free hand to brush back the messy tendrils of hair that had escaped her braid. She bites her lip to avoid snapping at the child, but he presses his cheek against her and she can feel his tears.

"Ghosts," he replies, sniffling.

"Ghosts?" New Jersey looks down at him curiously. "There aren't any ghosts here. You're perfectly safe."

America shakes his head and presses closer. "There're always ghosts, and demons, and specters. Percy says— "

New Jersey scowls and tilts his head up, looking sternly at him. She should have known; he'd spent much of the last two years with Massachusetts, who is obsessed with all sorts of nonsense. "Percy," she says carefully, "sees spirits everywhere, even where they are not." She does not put much stock in witches, especially not the sort of witches allegedly in Salem.

"But, Sue," he says, "Percy saw them. He said he did! He said he saw the Devil hanging above the witches' heads." New Jersey can feel him trembling against him and reaches for the quilt, which she tugs around his shoulders. She should kindle the fire and let some warmth into the room, but America is clinging so tightly to her skirts that she doesn't think he'd let her go.

New Jersey doesn't answer for a long while as she considers her answer, just strokes her fingers through his hair till his shaking calms and he loosens his grip on her. She reminds herself that he's only a little child and doesn't know any better. Massachusetts is older, and he doesn't know better, either, after all.

"Once," she says slowly, "when Scotland came to visit, he showed me how his people ward off unwanted spirits. Would you like me to tell you about it?"

America looks up wide-eyed at her and nods.

New Jersey shifts back against the pillows and gathers him into her arms. He drops his head to her shoulder and curls his hand in her skirts. "Well, first we went out into the garden to find a big pumpkin. After we picked one out we brought it inside and carved the insides out of it." They'd made soup out of the meat and roasted the seeds, after, as well.

"Then what?"

"Then we carved a face into the sides," she replies. "A really fearsome face, to scare the spirits away. And then we put a candle inside, so that the face lit up. After that, we set it outside on the front steps. The candle makes it so the spirits can see it from far away, so they don't come close. Scotland called them jack o' lanterns."

America swallows and rubs his cheeks. "Can we do that, Sue? There're pumpkins out in your garden!"

New Jersey chuckles and hugs him. "Yes, we can do it after breakfast. You can pick the pumpkin out!"

"I'll pick the biggest pumpkin there is," America promises. "That way the face can be big too, and it'll scare all the ghosts away."

"Good," New Jersey says, smiling a little. She might not believe much in spirits, but she does believe in the power of gardens. "Now, it's time to go back to bed. The sun will come up faster if you're asleep." She shifts America off her lap and prepares to set him on the floor.

"Um, Sue?" He asks tentatively. "Can't I stay with you tonight? Just in case." He gives her such a wide-eyed, sad look that New Jersey sighs.

Her bed is not that large, and America is not an easy sleeper. He moves all night and takes up a surprising amount of room for such a little child. Still, she hasn't the heart to turn him away.

"Just for tonight," she replies, leaning aside to blow the candle out. "Tomorrow, it's back to your own bed, though." she settles them both down and pulls the quilt tightly around their shoulders.

"Thanks, Sue," he sighs, snuggling against her. "Night."

New Jersey sighs again and holds him close. "Good night, Alfie."

And they both sleep well that night.

* * *

_Present-Day, America's home near D.C._

"Alfred's _still_ up in the attic?" New Jersey asks as she and Texas amble into the kitchen, arms laden with groceries. The other states aren't due in for the meeting for another week, when they'll do a larger Costco run, but for now they need only cook for four.

California looks up from her book and shrugs. "I brought him a sandwich like two hours ago and he was knee-deep in old quilts."

Texas snorts. "Well hopefully he hasn't managed to drown himself." He sets his bag on the table and digs through it, pulling out the steaks America had wanted to grill for dinner.

"I think he'll manage," New Jersey laughs, voice muffled as she rearranges the fridge to make room for the milk.

"Are you two hungry?" California asks. "There's still some chicken salad from lunch."

"No, we ate while we were out," Texas replies, sharing a smile with New Jersey. "There was a little cafe near the store and Sue couldn't resist."

California is about to reply when America comes thumping down the stairs and pokes his head into the room. "Oh good, Sue! You're back! C'mere, I wanna show you something!"

"Show me what?" New Jersey slides the steaks Texas hands her into the fridge and nudges the door shut as she turns.

"Something I found in the attic!" With that, he darts away, and they hear him pounding back up the stairs. New Jersey glances at Texas and California, who shrug, and they all wind up following America to the attic.

It's dusty up there, and rather dimly lit, the only light coming from a single bulb and the sun filtering through the window. New Jersey sneezes as the dust tickles her nose and murmurs a 'thanks' to California's 'bless you.'

"Look, Sue," America says, hefting up a portrait. "D'you remember this? General Washington had it commissioned in '96, after Nathaniel joined."

New Jersey leans forward to get a better look at the picture and can't help but smile a little. She does remember—it's of the early states, all of them, and America together. "I do remember," she replies. "Nathaniel was very squirmy and didn't want to sit still."

California and Texas eagerly shuffle closer to peer at the portrait themselves.

"Is that you, Sue?" California asks, pointing to one of the figures with a child on her lap and long blonde braids falling over her shoulders.

"Mhm," New Jersey murmurs. "And Nathaniel."

Texas grins. Tennessee is one of his good friends, but he's never seen what the other state looks like as a child. "I didn't know that there were any paintings of Nate so young."

"Caroline probably has others," America replies. "She and Ginny primarily raised him. And Teddy, too."

"That one must be Teddy," California says, gesturing to an older child asleep on the shoulder of a woman who could only be Virginia. Of the original thirteen, only she and Massachusetts have red hair. "And that's Pierre." The last child, a young Vermont, is sitting between New York and New Hampshire and more interested in the puppy curled at his feet than the world around him.

"It's in such good condition," New Jersey says, looking over at America, "for being stuck up here for centuries."

"I know," America agrees. He brushes away some of the dust on the frame and grins up at her. "Must be because it's so dark up here, even though it's humid too."

"Have you found any other interesting paintings?" California asks, settling down onto the creaky old floorboards.

"Sure have!" America sets the portrait gently against the wall and turns to pull an old canvas from another, smaller portrait. "It's another one of you, Sue. And Ben." He tilts it to catch the light.

"Aw, how cute!" California says with a laugh. "You look so young!"

"When was that one commissioned?" Texas asks, his own grin tugging at the corners of his lips. He gently takes the painting from Alfred and brushes his finger over New Jersey's face.

"Oh, ages ago," New Jersey breathes, leaning against Texas's shoulder. "Before the Revolution, definitely. Maybe the 1720s? The clothes look about right for that period."

She dimly remembers sitting for that particular portrait—England had made them dress in their Sunday best, which for New Jersey had been a pale green gown embroidered with tiny pink roses and for New York had been a rich blue overcoat and tan breeches.

"I think it was very hot and humid that day," New Jersey says aloud. "Because Ben had complained loudly about how he wanted to go for a swim, and England had boxed him 'round the ears." Their best clothes back then had been so heavy and stiff, and they'd had to wear more of it; it was not good for summertime.

California snorts. "Ben still often needs a cuff 'round the ears."

New Jersey laughs. "Don't let him hear you say that."

"It's true though!"

"Maybe sometimes," New Jersey agrees amiably.

"How long were you sitting there for?" Texas asks.

New Jersey shrugs. "Can't remember _that_ many details. But I guess we dozed off in the end."

The painting shows the two of them leaning against one another on a couch, eyes closed and looking very much at peace, hazy summer sunlight setting their hair agleam.

"I have some of Georgie's old sketchbooks, too," America says, lifting a leatherbound book out of a trunk. "Careful with the paper," he adds as he hands it over to California.

"I forgot he likes to draw," California says, gently turning the pages. The first few sketches are all of landscapes and animals, although some are smudged passed recognition. There's one of Maryland, smiling and cradling a kitten, and another of Virginia bent over an embroidery hoop, mob-cap slightly askew.

"How'd you get these?" New Jersey asks.

America shrugs. "I did take some of his stuff for storage when he was having that new house of his built, back in the '20s. They must have been mixed in with my own boxes and never managed to get back to him."

"Oh, look," California interrupts. "Here's you and James, Sue." Indeed, the page she turned to is one of them dancing, Pennsylvania swinging her around as she tossed her head back with laughter.

"I didn't know he'd drawn that," New Jersey says with a grin. "He was always so sly about that sort of thing."

"Guess you have to be, to get candid sketches," Texas says, curling his hand around hers. "I thought you said you couldn't dance?"

New Jersey rolls her eyes. "I said I couldn't _tango_, which is what you wanted to do. And I never said I wouldn't go with you, just that you'd have to teach me first."

Texas smiles, leering playfully down at her. "Well in that case—" He reaches over with his free hand to squeeze her knee softly, grin widening when New Jersey giggles.

"Guys!" California says, wrinkling her nose. "Save the flirting for later."

"There's Ben," America says of the next page, ignoring Texas and New Jersey. "And that dog of his. What was its name again?"

"Twiggy," New Jersey replies. "She was a wolfhound, the runt of her litter. The owner was going to kill her, so Benny took her and raised her himself. He was basically in love with her." She smiles fondly, though, because the dog had been a sweetheart and had loved her brother just as much.

"It's so weird to think of him raising baby animals," California says. "I don't think I've ever seen him with a pet."

New Jersey shrugs. "He mainly lives in his New York City apartment nowadays, and he doesn't like small dogs. He's had a few cats though. But Manhattan wasn't all that settled back then, so there was plenty of room for a big dog. He took her hunting all the time."

"Hard to imagine Ben hunting too," Texas says wryly. New York has always tended to turn down invitations to hunt with a bunch of them—although Texas can acknowledge that the reason might be because New York doesn't care to hang out with some of the southerners who come along.

"He goes with Vermont sometimes," New Jersey says. "Not recently, though, but they've gone for deer in the Adirondacks before. He says neither of them use enough meat to make it worthwhile." She herself had ended up with a decent amount of venison she had to make room in her freezer for.

"Enough about Ben," California says. "Here's another of you, Susie." She gestures to a drawing of New Jersey staring adoringly up at a dark horse.

"His name was Thunder," New Jersey replies, smile softening.

"So this is little Stormy's namesake," Texas murmurs, thinking of the filly he'd let her name recently. "You told me about him; he was the racer? You're right though. That blaze running down his nose looks like hers."

New Jersey nods. "She'll dapple like he did too, probably. You can't tell 'cause of the charcoal, obviously, but she's real similar in color to him."

Texas studies the picture silently, although he has eyes more for New Jersey than for the horse. She still has that same slightly crooked smile and dusting of freckles across her nose, even if her face isn't so round with youth anymore. She was just as pretty then, he thinks. He wonders if Delaware would let him take it, if he asked.

"There's tons of other neat stuff up here," America says after a moment, rolling his shoulders and sighing as they crack. "One of those old quilts was something Ginny made for me when I was small. Can't possibly go through all of it in one day."

"You should come downstairs and go outside then," New Jersey replies. "It's no good breathing in all this dust. Sammy'll grill for us, won't you?" She turns to smile at her boyfriend, who tears his eyes away from the drawing to return the look.

"'Course I will," he agrees with a glance down at his watch. They've been up here later than he realized. "You can shower while I heat the grill up," he says to America. He gets to his feet and pulls New Jersey up beside him.

"Yeah," America says, standing. "Sounds like a plan to me. Let's go then!" He leads them downstairs, shutting the light off behind them and leaving the dust to settle.

* * *

On jack-o-lanterns: I had a professor who mentioned that jack-o-lanterns were brought by Scottish settlers travelling to their New Jersey colony as a way to protect people from malignant spirits. The faces carved in the gourd's flesh (pumpkins in the New World) are what scared those spirits off. I had trouble finding anything to verify how jack-o-lanterns came to the US when I researched it myself later, so I can't say whether my professor was correct or not-Wikipedia says that the association of jack-o-lanterns with Halloween in the US didn't really occur until the mid-nineteenth century, and my other research only mentions that the lore in Scotland and Ireland has been around for centuries and that the tradition was brought to the US by immigrants from those countries. In any case, I thought the idea was neat and decided to use it anyway, especially considering how America is canonically frightened of ghosts.

On Massachusetts' name: Deciding on a name for Massachusetts was difficult until I remembered that the Puritans occasionally gave their children 'virtue names,' as a way of setting themselves apart and reminding their children of important virtues (or of sins). I went with 'Perseverance' because it can be shortened to 'Percy,' which is a name that would not sound odd or out of place at any given time in history. (Indeed, nowadays, he prefers to let people assume his name is 'Percival!') Of course, it was a little difficult to resist naming him 'Fly-fornication' or 'If-Christ-had-not-died-for-thee-thou-hadst-been-damned!


	4. Chapter 4

It's been a long while since I've updated this. I don't really have much of an excuse, to be honest, other than that I'm not sure whether anyone but me is actually interested in this particular fic! In any case, I've been sitting on a bunch of these and now that summer's over, I figured I may as well throw a few of them up. There are two one shots here, one from New Jersey's childhood and one from the twentieth century. See the end for more notes!

Also, please note: slight warning of bloody injury in the second fic. It's not particularly graphic, but NJ does suffer a wound of the attack-on-her-land sort.

_._._._

_Names:_

New Jersey: Susanna (&amp; the diminutive "Sanne")  
New York: Benjamin  
Belgium: Manon Abrams  
Netherlands: Lars van Alst  
Virginia: Ginny

_._._._

_[1600s, New Netherlands Colony]_

Netherlands doesn't notice it at first, that of his twin colonies only the boy, Benjamin, speaks. He chatters away cheerfully, filling the silence enough for both of the children who make up New Netherlands, and young Susanna doesn't seem to mind letting her brother take the lead.

It's only when he brings his own sister to meet them that he realizes she hasn't said one word.

"Oh, how cute they are, Lars!" Belgium exclaims, kneeling before New Netherlands, who watch her curiously. "I'm Manon. What are your names?"

"I'm Benjamin!" The boy says cheerfully. He tugs his sister's hand and adds, "And this is Susanna, but we call her Sanne!" The girl, all blonde curls and rosy cheeks, smiles shyly.

"I'm sure she can tell me her name on her own," Belgium says gently. "Isn't that right, dear?"

Susanna tugs on her brother's hand, and the two children look at each other, shrugging. "She don't wanna," Benjamin says finally. He shifts from foot to foot and both children seem to be rapidly losing interest in Belgium, so Netherlands sighs and dismisses them.

"We've dinner in the formal dining room tonight," he tells them firmly. "Be in early for washing."

"Yes, Netherlands!" Benjamin promises, even as he pulls Susanna towards the door after him. "C'mon, Sanne! Hedy's puppies opened their eyes today!"

Netherlands and Belgium listen as his voice fades away, and then Belgium turns to Netherlands with a worried frown. "Does he always speak for her?"

"I… I've never really noticed," he replies slowly, frowning. "He's always been the more outgoing child." It did take him awhile to learn to properly speak Dutch, as it goes with children, but Benjamin had never been silent.

Belgium raises a skeptical eyebrow at him. "You never noticed? Really?"

Netherlands shrugs. "I'm not around them _that _often. And Susanna is a good girl—she knows her letters just fine; the tutors have never complained." They had, in fact, had more to say about Benjamin's constant stream of chatter.

"You are utterly _useless!"_ Belgium says after a moment of staring incredulously at him. "Honestly. How in God's name does something like that escape your notice?" She shakes her skirts out and whirls away, calling over her shoulder that she'll go speak to the tutors Netherlands had hired herself. She leaves the room with a last exasperated cry of, "Men!"

Netherlands gazes after her in bemusement, but the more he thinks about it, the more he does find it concerning that Susanna's never spoken. On the other hand, though, surely the tutors would have said something if it were truly a problem? With that thought in mind, Netherlands resolves to tuck his worry away for a later date. He has merchants that need dealing with first.

It all comes back to him a few days later when Belgium corners him after breakfast, before his secretary can call him away to business.

"The tutors have said they've never heard her talk either." Belgium scowls at him, huffing. "And they didn't see fit to _tell_ you because girls are to be silent and they thought she was simply being _demure,"_ she continues indignantly. "As she was supposed to be!"

"Manon—" Netherlands starts.

"Don't you 'Manon' me!" Belgium hisses. "She's our kind, not some human girl! We have to figure out why she can't talk."

Netherlands sighs, but he sees that Belgium has a point, so he allows her to gather the children and shepherd them into the drawing room. She sits them down near the hearth and pours them each a cup of the chocolate imported from Spain's colonies to the south.

"Wow!" Benjamin says, licking his lips. "We never get treats like this in the middle of the day!" He grins cheerfully at Belgium. Susanna nods along, even as she carefully sips her drink, legs swinging.

"What do you say, Benjamin?" Netherlands reminds him, masking his fondness with an exasperated sigh.

"Oops! Thanks, Miss Manon!"

"You're very welcome, child," she says. "Now we do have something to discuss."

Her voice is serious enough that both children of New Netherlands look up at her warily. Susanna carefully sets her cup down and wipes her lips with the corner of her apron, and Benjamin straightens his shoulders.

"It's come to our attention that you can't speak, Susanna," Belgium says gently. She pulls out a small sheaf of papers bound carefully with string and a stick of charcoal. "Your tutors have said you know your letters well, so we thought you might write down anything that might be wrong."

Susanna looks confused, but she takes the paper even as Benjamin squawks, "She prefers Sanne!"

"She can answer for herself," Belgium tells him firmly. "She'll never learn to speak if you keep doing it for her!" She lifts her own cup and takes a long steadying sip.

"I'm _not_ talking for her! I'm just saying!"

With a sigh, Netherlands kneels before Susanna and pats her shoulder gently. "If there's anything wrong, you can tell us."

"But there's nothing wrong," Susanna says eventually, sounding perplexed.

Netherlands and Belgium gape at her, and the fine porcelain cup drops from Belgium's slack hand.

"B—but," Belgium sputters, "Benjamin said you couldn't talk."

"I did not!" Benjamin says indignantly. "I said she didn't _wanna_ talk! It's diff'rent!"

"I don't like to speak if I have nothin' to say," Susanna tells them, biting her lip. "An' Ben likes to talk plenty."

Netherlands chuckles and ruffles her hair affectionately. "My kind of girl," he teases. He snickers a little at Belgium's pout, but he stands and throws an arm around his own sister's shoulders. "They have you there, Manon."

Belgium sighs, but she manages a smile. "Yes," agrees. "I suppose they do." She turns to Susanna and continues, "And if you ever find you have something to say but don't want to talk, you can still write it down."

Susanna, when she smiles, lights the room, and she says, "That would be good."

* * *

[July 30, 1916]

2 A.M., Washington, D.C.

There is fire everywhere, and thick black smoke burns down New Jersey's throat and in her lungs. Her chest feels heavy and hot, as if she's been struck by cannon fire, and the ground trembles beneath her feet. The shaking sends her tumbling to the ground where she lays, winded. She tries to draw cool, clean air into her starving lungs, but there is none, and sh can't find the strength to stand.

Instead, all she tastes is the metallic tang of blood on her tongue.

New Jersey wakes with a start, panting.

For a moment she can't remember where she is; she's too hot, and it's too dark and—

It comes to her in a rush.

America's house. She's lying in her bed at America's house, where they're to have their summer meetings in only a few days.

The room is dark and silent, and a light breeze filters in from the open window. New Jersey allows herself to relax and to settle back into sleep.

That's when the searing pain in her throat hits her.

Too stunned to scream, New Jersey gasps and feels herself choking. Panicking, she tries to breathe, and when she finds she can't, she lurches upward, clawing at her neck as if the act would clear her throat. Doubled over, she coughs wetly into her hands.

She knows instinctively that she is bleeding.

The world seems to narrow to the burning in her throat and lungs as she struggles for air. Coughing only seems to make the pain worse because she can't breathe in, no matter how hard she tries—

Later, she would not recall how she manages to drag herself out of bed, nightdress and sheets tangled around her legs, but somehow she struggles across the hall to her brother's room and bangs on the door, bloody fists staining the paint.

"It's the middle of the night!" New York shouts. Dimly, New Jersey can hear him stomping to the door, ready to jerk it open. "What can possibly be so important that—"

He cuts off with a startled exclamation. "Sanne?"

She must look a sight, New Jersey thinks vaguely, all doubled over and drenched in blood, hair a tangled mess down her back. She can't stop coughing long enough to tell him how her throat burns, how she'd felt a rocking explosion in her bones, an attack on her own beloved soil and no way to stop it.

But New York seems to understand and swears violently as he reaches for her. She leans gratefully against him, for dark spots have started to crowd the edges of her vision. New York's hands are steady on her back and she clings to the awareness of them, the only comfort she has amidst the fire.

"What's going on?" a voice cries from somewhere behind her. Virginia? New Jersey wonders, but she feels too light-headed to concentrate on it, so she lets it go.

"Don't know," another voice replies. "But get Alfred! Hurry!"

She can't recognize that voice, either, for all that she knew it only moments—hours? she wonders; everything feels so slow—ago. She still can't breathe, but it doesn't hurt anymore, so she supposes that it's a fair trade.

She does feel something blessedly cool on her cheeks and tries to turn her face toward it, and then—

The darkness finally overwhelms her, and she knows no more.

_._._._

New Jersey wakes with the sun warm on her cheeks.

Hazily, she tries to open her eyes and groans when the light blinds her. The groan sends pain flaring in her throat, and New Jersey's eyes shoot open in panic. Before she can lift her hands to her neck, she feels a weight beside her on the bed.

"Calm down, Susanna," Virginia murmurs, pressing her palms to New Jersey's cheeks. "Shh, you're all right. It's okay."

Virginia tilts her head till she's staring right into New Jersey's eyes, and New Jersey wills herself to relax. It works, with Virginia's murmured encouragements, and eventually New Jersey feels calm enough to wonder what happened. She remembers waking from a nightmare but nothing else. She makes another noise, low in the back of her throat, and then cringes at the throbbing pain.

"There was an incident last night," Virginia tells her softly. She has always been one to get straight to the heart of things, and New Jersey is glad for that. She doesn't want anyone to tiptoe around her. She lifts her fingertips to the back of Virginia's hand.

Virginia smiles grimly. "It was an explosion at Black Tom," she continues. "You woke us all up, banging on New York's door as you were. It's a good thing you did, or we'd not have known so soon!" Virginia adds with forced cheer. New Jersey can hear the worry in her voice though, and curls her hand around Virginia's. It's her Virginia's worried about.

The knowledge of what had actually happened last night sends a thrill of fear shooting through her. There were munitions being kept at Black Tom, explosives meant to be sold to the British. Any little fire could have set them alight.

"Some people're saying it was the Germans," New York says from the doorway. New Jersey jolts in surprise at the sound of his voice. She winces when the movement jostles her sore throat.

She shifts her head to look at him and finds him leaning against the frame. He's not smiling, but New Jersey thinks she can see a glimmer of relief in his eyes at the sight of her awake. She blinks at him and manages a little smile of her own. He dips his head.

"No one knows that for sure," Virginia snaps. "It could very well have been an accident."

New York shrugs. "I'm only repeating what's being speculated."

"We will suffer no rumors of attack," Virginia replies firmly. "Not until we know for sure whether it's true or not."

There is wisdom in that, New Jersey thinks, but she knows that New York is right to be worried. For all their claims of neutrality, they have been active in selling arms to Britain, and the Germans know it.

When New York only shrugs again, Virginia gives him a pointed look. "Is there a reason you're here, Ben?"

"I can't come and see my sister?" New York retorts blandly. At Virginia's frown, he rolls his eyes and straightens, padding into the room. "The doctor's come back. Alfred's talking with him now, but he wanted you to know that they'd be coming up."

Virginia nods and straightens. "I'll get the kettle then. He'll want the water." She smiles down at New Jersey and adds, "He'll give you something more for the pain, too, I'm sure." New Jersey manages to sigh.

Once Virginia's left the room, New York settles down where she had been and the bed dips under his weight. He says nothing more, only reaches out to stroke New Jersey's hair. It's comforting, so she lets her eyes drift shut and concentrates on the slow movement of her brother's hands.

And neither of them mind waiting in the silence.

_._._._

Notes:

Firstly, you'll notice that I've gone and changed the spelling of New Jersey's name. This is because historically, "Susanna" has been the more popular spelling, and I've decided that I prefer to use the more common variation. Aesthetically, I also have decided that I prefer the way it looks without the final "h." I doubt I'll get around to actually going back and correcting the previous chapters though.

Secondly, I've always found the idea of children who take forever to speak and then come out and use full sentences from the beginning to be hilarious, so I've applied it to New Jersey here. I tend to think of her as somewhat more reserved than her neighbors Pennsylvania and New York, who often overshadow her. Historically, it's said that Ben Franklin called New Jersey "a barrel tapped at both ends" due to its close proximity to Philadelphia and New York City, and that's something I've kept in mind when writing as following New York's lead. Furthermore, the histories of New Jersey and New York are very entwined with one another: they were both part of the New Netherlands colony (although the southern half of New Jersey also made up part of New Sweden), and until the early eighteenth century, the governor of New York was also the governor of New Jersey (the most famous of these governors might well have been Edward Hyde, third Earl of Clarendon who was said to open the Assembly dressed in the style of his cousin Queen Anne!) The Port Authority of New York and New Jersey also operates the area's ports, three major airports, and owns the land upon which the World Trace Center was built, and the two states have a long history of arguing over who owns Ellis Island and Liberty Island, which is home to the Statue of Liberty. The question of who exactly has jurisdiction is somewhat complicated, but essentially they've been told to _share_ it. And while on the surface all of that doesn't have much to do with the fic, it's my rather long-winded justification for New York's taking the lead when they were children. They still work closely together, but nowadays, New Jersey is much less willing to allow him to boss her around.

Thirdly, Black Tom was a munitions depot in Jersey City, New Jersey, across the harbor from New York City. On July 30, 1916, there were a serious of fires there which resulted in the munitions exploding. It's said that the explosion would have been the equivalent of a 5.5 earthquake and that it was felt as far south as Philadelphia. Windows in lower Manhattan were broken, immigrants on Ellis Island were evacuated, and the Statue of Liberty's torch was closed to the public due to damage. An investigation later determined that the explosion was caused by German sabotage as part of an effort to prevent the United States from selling arms to the Allies. After World War I, Germany was told to pay $50 million in damages, and the last payment was made in 1979.


	5. Chapter 5

Well, it has certainly been a long time since I've updated here. I have no excuse for that, although I've been doing plenty of writing in this 'verse.

This particular piece is set just before the Continental Congress convened in Philadelphia. There's a reference to Britain closing the port in Boston. Beyond that, there's violence in the story ahead, on the part of England, that would likely be considered abuse. If this isn't your thing, you might want to skip this particular short story.

* * *

New Jersey is tying the rosemary for drying when she hears the pounding on her door. She startles, frowning, and sets the bundle down. She doesn't know who could be visiting her—she hasn't been expecting anyone, and she's due to leave for Philadelphia within the week.

The banging on the door cuts off abruptly, and New Jersey is about to investigate the raised voices she hears when the maid bursts into the kitchen. "Miss Susanna," she gasps, clutching at the door frame, "Lord Kirkland is here!" She looks over her shoulder worriedly and adds, "He's angry."

New Jersey swears. She runs her hands worriedly over her skirts, clutching reflexively at her apron. "Did he bring soldiers with him?" Many of her people are angry over being forced to quarter redcoats—the soldiers move in like they own everything around them—and she doesn't know what she'd do if England brought his men here.

She'd never make it out to Pennsylvania.

The maid shakes her head. "Jack didn't see any. He was out watering the horses when Lord Kirkland rode down the lane and order him to see to his stallion."

New Jersey grimaces. It's been getting harder and harder for her to temper the dislike sparking in her gut whenever she thinks about England. More and more, she wants him off of her land, no matter how unsure she might be of revolution as a solution.

"Miss Susanna," the maid says urgently. "You mustn't keep him waiting!"

"All right, Lydia," she sighs. "Okay. I'm going. Would you just—keep tending to the rosemary." New Jersey doesn't miss the flash of relief that crosses her face. England's appearance has shaken her deeply.

An uncharitable part of New Jersey thinks it isn't fair, that she's the one who has to confront England, while Lydia can stay in the comforting confines of the kitchen, where the scent of calming herbs is heavy in the air.

But New Jersey pushes that thought away quickly. Lydia is human, and she's younger than New Jersey is. England is her responsibility, and no one else's. He's come to see her, anyway, and he surely would take offense, if she were to force him to deal with the humans she employs.

She straightens her shoulders and unwinds the apron from her waist. "I'll be back in a bit," she says to Lydia, as much to reassure herself as the other woman.

"Miss Susanna," Lydia starts, "please just—"

"I know, Lydia," New Jersey says quietly. "I'll be careful."

She can't justify stalling any longer, and she knows that the more she avoids England, the angrier he'll be, so she forces herself out of the kitchen. Her footsteps sound louder than normal against the wooden floor of the hallway, and New Jersey belatedly wishes that she and Lydia hadn't hung the rugs out to air.

When she reaches the drawing room door, she wonders if England can hear her coming.

New Jersey takes a deep, steadying breath and enters.

"There you are, Susanna," England says when she's shut the door behind her. He's staring out the window and doesn't turn around. "What in the world could have possibly kept you so long?"

England's voice is quiet, but New Jersey can hear the barely-controlled anger underneath that deceptively mild tone, and she can't help the shudder that shoots up her spine. He's not even looking at her, she thinks, somewhat distressed.

"I was drying herbs," she says softly. She keeps her eyes trained down at his feet, and hates herself a little for that.

Massachusetts had stared him dead in the eye and had dared him to shoot, and New Jersey can barely lift her head.

England whirls around to face her so fast that New Jersey takes a step back, her eyes flying up to meet his.

"Governor Franklin has been very dissatisfied with you lately," England says. New Jersey's jaw clenches, but she bites her tongue, and when she doesn't respond, England continues. "Your Assembly has been belligerent, and the governor has been in need of your assistance in cooling them down."

He seems to be expecting an answer, so New Jersey says, tightly, "I cannot control them."

England's eyes narrow. "Our King is even more displeased with you, with all of you," he says. His voice is deadly quiet, and New Jersey feels the first spark of fear in her belly. "You're lucky that Governor Franklin has put in a good word for you, at least, despite the annoyance."

New Jersey's jaw drops. "Annoyance?" She blurts, "Displeasure?" She closes her mouth with a clack when she sees England's face twist with anger.

"Exactly that, Susanna. The actions of these colonists are not befitting proper subjects of the Crown."

She knows it's a bad idea as soon as she opens her mouth again, but she can't seem to help herself when she cries, "You're the one who told us we've given up our rights as English subjects! You've told us that we aren't entitled to the same rights and protections as those living in Britain! And you've forced soldiers upon our people, and raised our taxes without consent—"

"Only to pay for that which you owe for protection against the French and those savages," England snarls.

New Jersey ignores him, voice rising hysterically, "And you've unlawfully closed our ports and massacred our people—"

She doesn't see the blow coming, but she feels the white hot burst of pain in her jaw when he hits her. She startles, yelping like a wounded animal, and loses her balance, dropping to her knees with a thump. New Jersey raises astonished eyes to England's and slowly lifts a hand to her mouth.

Her fingers come away bloody.

"You—" she starts. The metallic, iron taste of blood is thick on her tongue.

England steps forward, sneering when New Jersey jerks back, and crouches in front of her. His hand comes up to cup her jaw. He lifts her chin and stares directly into her eyes. "Do not cross me, girl," he says quietly. His hand shifts, and New Jersey feels his fingers curling around her neck. "You'll regret the day you do."

New Jersey trembles beneath his heavy hand, but she forces herself to say, "You've no right."

He squeezes, and New Jersey chokes on the words.

"I've every right," he replies. The pressure around her throat tightens, and she feels his fingers digging into her skin. "You're mine. My property to do with as I please. You exist for the pleasure of the Crown. Do not forget that."

New Jersey curls her fingers in her skirts, and tries to draw in air around the squeeze of his hand. England presses harder and only relents when New Jersey begins to see spots dancing before her eyes. She gasps, shuddering, when he drops his hand and stands.

"Remember," he says again, "Or I'll make you wish you were never born."

He turns away and leaves the room without a backwards glance. New Jersey can only watch him go with wide, terrified eyes, still trembling where he left her. Distantly, she can hear the front door slam, so she forces herself to her feet, though her legs are shaky.

She's not sure how she finds the strength, but she only stumbles twice as she tries to make her way back to the kitchen.

She walks as if in a daze till she finds Lydia where she left her, at the table with the rosemary.

The maid looks up when she enters, a smile on her lips, and New Jersey watches with a detached sort of fascination as her face twists in horror. "Lord above," she breathes, leaping to her feet. "Oh, Miss, what did he do to you?"

New Jersey flinches at the sudden movement, and Lydia is much more careful when she reaches to press a rag to her bloody mouth. It's only when Lydia rubs a thumb under her eyes that New Jersey realizes she's been crying, too.

"He…" she starts, voice raspy. She cuts the words off and starts again, heart pounding in her chest. She doesn't want to relive those moments. "I need to go to Philadelphia," she says instead. "Help me pack."

"It's so late in the day," Lydia starts, "and your face…"

"Philadelphia," she repeats, latching on to the one thing that will get her away from here. "I need—"

"Okay," Lydia says, "all right. Let me draw a bath for you first, and then I'll gather your things. And you'll need something for your throat."

"No tea," New Jersey croaks.

"Broth," Lydia replies. "Now come."

New Jersey does.

* * *

Notes:

I've covered a few of the things here that were among the causes of the American Revolution, including the closures of Boston port and the Boston Massacre and the quartering of soldiers. In addition to that, the American colonists did not believe that they were be treated like proper British subjects, because Parliament passed laws that affected the colonies without actually consulting the colonists who lived there. While independence was a last resort when no compromise with the crown could be reached, the tension had been building steadily for years.


End file.
